


The Shoulder

by LMDrums



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Broken Bones, Broken Collarbone, Concerned Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Visits, Father-Daughter Relationship, Hurt & Comfort, Hurt John Watson, Injury, Medicine, Pain, Sentiment, War wounds, shoulder pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 00:46:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18954508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LMDrums/pseuds/LMDrums
Summary: What happens when John takes an unexpected blow to the shoulder during a case?





	1. Chapter 1

White hot pain seared across John’s mind as he awoke. Consumed by the sensation of never-ending and agonizing pain, his forehead scrunched up into deep lines of torment as he forced his eyes back closed in a desperate attempt to escape reality. 

It was his damn shoulder. It was always the shoulder. He could hear the downpour of relentless rain that had been falling for the last eight hours. A deep ache from within his joint ate away at all sense of his rationality. He felt red hot tears brewing, and before he could get himself under control, they streamed down his sweaty face. 

“Daddy?” a small and innocent voice called out into the dark room where John lay miserable and weeping, and if there was one thing that John Watson didn’t do, it was showing weakness.

Little Rosie got closer to her disheveled father; however, John remained completely unaware of her presence due to his current state of affliction. 

Climbing up onto John’s bed, she curled tightly into his side and lay her head on his good shoulder. Despite only being seven years old, she was acutely aware of the pain John frequently witnessed. 

John seemed to ease a bit at her warm and loving touch. It only took minutes, however, for his breathing to become labored again. He quickly wrestled his right hand free from under Rosie’s small form and formed a white-knuckled grip on his bad shoulder. 

He started to roll back and forth as if he was willing the pain away. He tossed and turned. He cried out incomprehensible curses. 

By this point, Rosie was beginning to become frightened at the sight of her father. She had never seen him in such a weakened state.

She quickly got out of the bed and ran down the stairs of the flat after hearing John begin to mumble expletives. 

“Uncle Sherlock!” she called as she rushed into the kitchen where he sat peering into a microscope. 

Sherlock already knew what she was on about. John had taken quite the hit to the shoulder the night before; that combined with the changing pressures from the storm was bound to aggravate his old injury extensively. 

All night, Sherlock was awoken by John’s constant tossing and moaning. He longed to comfort his friend but knew that John was particularly irritable and quiet when his shoulder acted up. It was better off to leave him be. 

“Yes, Rosie?” Sherlock replied in hopes that she just needed help with opening a jar or such. 

“It’s Daddy…” 

“What about him,” Sherlock inquired, still hopeful. 

“He said a bad word,” Rosie accused, “... and uh… I think he is crying.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He honestly didn’t know what John would want him to do in such a situation. While Rosie was aware of John’s shoulder, she didn’t know the true extent of the wound or its origin. 

“Let’s go get him up, shall we,” Sherlock deflected. He hoped that John would feel better if he did some light stretching and got a heating pad on the offending shoulder. 

The two walked side by side up the stairs until they reached John’s bedroom. They could hear John’s whimpering from outside the room. Sherlock pushed open the door to reveal a blackened room. All there was to be seen was a raised lump under the cover, presumably John. 

Sherlock slowly made his way over to John’s bed and placed his hand over John’s right shoulder. 

“John,” he began. “John… wake up.” 

“Grhmpf...mmm.” John stirred. He ever so slowly opened his wet eyes to reveal a concerned Sherlock. 

“John?” Sherlock questioned, still unaware if John was truly awake. 

“Christ… my shoulder,” he groaned, completely unaware of Rosie’s presence. She just stood in the doorframe. 

“You got hit pretty hard yesterday,” Sherlock began. “Are you sure nothing was damaged?”

“I’m a bloody doctor, Sherlock. I think I would know,” John retorted, finally coming to his senses.

“Dull, John. We are both fully aware. I ask simply because of the inhuman noises you have been blessing Rosie and me with.”

“You take a bullet to the shoulder in a foreign country and then we’ll talk,” John challenged as he once again closed his eyes.

“Bullet…” Rosie’s soft voice repeated. 

“Damn it,” John cursed as he scrunched up his face. He had no idea that Rosie was in the room. 

Sherlock grimaced. He would never have guessed that John would’ve reacted so explosively. 

“Sherlock?” John whispered. 

“Yes?” 

“Can you take Rosie to the kitchen and get her some breakfast?” John breathed. “I will be out in a minute.” 

“Sure, John,” Sherlock replied, hoping John could actually get himself out of bed. 

“Come along, Rosie,” Sherlock gently called. 

Rosie still wasn’t convinced. Tentatively, she turned her head away from John and followed Sherlock back to the kitchen. 

John lay still, willing himself to move. His shoulder hadn’t hurt this bad in a really long time. 

He had been chasing a suspect through the streets of London, as one does, when Sherlock had pulled way ahead. Apparently said suspect had circled back and ended up meeting John. 

It was still a bit hazy. He had been welcomed with a firm blow to the top of the shoulder with what he guessed to be a board of some sort. God, that hurt. 

Snapping back, John pushed himself into a sitting position with his right arm. He cringed when heard the sickening sound of his shoulder popping. 

He slowly made his way into the small bathroom that connected to his room. Looking in the mirror, he grimaced at the white complexion that stared back at him. Popping not one, but two prescription painkillers, John made his descend downstairs and into the kitchen. 

“Daddy, I made you some toast,” Rosie announced softly while holding out a plate. 

“Thank you, honey.” John reached out with his right arm to grab the plate and sat opposite Sherlock. 

“How are you feeling,” Sherlock inquired. 

“Good,” John lied. 

“Good… ” Sherlock repeated, obviously not convinced. It was evident from John’s posture and facial expressions that he was not, in fact, “good.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. 

“Fine,” John began. “I’m not ‘good,’ but there’s not a lot I can do about it.”

“Nonsense, John,” Sherlock retorted with a bit of a smile. “Rosie and I are here to help you along in your recovery.” 

“My recovery?” John repeated.

“Yes, John. Your shoulder is a sickening mix of black and purple.” 

“How do you--”

“John you didn’t have a shirt on when you woke up. That was about ten minutes ago. Are you sure you didn’t get hit in the head as well?” 

John gave him a dirty look and shook his head; however, he was greeted with immense discomfort as his shoulder pulled resulting in a wince. 

“You really should at least allow us to get you a heating pad,” Sherlock suggesting. 

“Please, Daddy… I wanna make you feel better,” Rosie chimed in. 

John flashed Sherlock a hesitant look. He really didn’t want hands, no matter how loving, near his tender joint. 

“John, allow us to help,” Sherlock coerced and raised his eyebrows. 

“Fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Good-- let’s get you settled in the living room,” Sherlock began. 

Quickly thinking through all the times he had awoken with a stiff and sore shoulder from their couch, John shook his head in disagreement. 

“Could I go back to my bed?”

“Why? That makes caring for you much more troublesome, John,” Sherlock retorted. 

“The couch, while easier for you, makes my shoulder stiff,” John reasoned. 

“Nonsense--”

“Sherlock,” John warned, “If you want to help me, I’m going upstairs.” 

With that, John picked up his plate of toast and struggled into a standing position. He pulled his shoulders back in an attempt to stretch out the joint, but only succeeded in a grimace. 

“John, are you sure you can make it upstairs?” 

“Yes, yes… I’m sure, you twat.” 

John hobbled up the stairs at a relatively slow pace; his shoulder protested at each movement. Finally, he arrived at his small room and eased himself onto the bed. 

Waiting a couple of minute before following John up in hopes that he could settle himself in privacy, Sherlock took the stairs at a fair pace followed by Rosie not far behind. 

Sherlock began to plug in the heating pad into the outlet that was just behind John’s side table. Rosie offered the union jack pillow to John that she had brought from the living room. 

“Thank you.” He smiled. 

“Uncle Sherlock told me to put it under your arm,” she recounted.

“Ahh, I see. I’ll take care of it, though. Thank you, Rosie.”

“John, let her help. It is essential in the young years of adolescence that one feels important within his or her household and are given opportunities to express empathy.”

“I guess your parents failed you on that one, then,” John retorted quietly. 

“I did hear that, and no they did not fail to provide such opportunities. I failed to take them,” Sherlock explained in defense. 

“Take it easy, I’m trying to make light of the situation,” John reasoned, “and no, I can put the pillow in place.” 

“But Daddy--” 

“Look, Rosie. I’m going to be honest with you. I am hurting right now, and I just need some time to get better.” 

“Can I see it?” 

“See what, darling?” John asked, confused. 

“Your shoulder,” she answered, obviously intrigued. 

Sherlock, who stood in the corner of the room watching the two interact, nodded. It was good for them to invest in each other. After Mary died, John hid away from everyone, including his daughter. This was a good opportunity for bonding. 

“I guess.” John sighed. 

He began to pull his shirt off using only his right arm which proved to be extremely difficult. Without prompting, Sherlock stepped over and gently pulled the fabric off of John without too much pain or commotion. 

“It was a lot easier putting it on,” John explained. 

“Yeah, well… I’m surprised you could do that.” 

John let his body melt into the pillows and wedged the small pillow Rosie brought him under his left shoulder. It seemed to ease a little of the pressure which, while seemingly insignificant eased his discomfort. 

Rosie, eyes wide with curiosity, jumped up onto the bed. This elicited a wince of discomfort from John who felt the whole bed shake. 

“Do be careful, Rosie,” Sherlock reminded. 

John’s shoulder was covered in darkened bruises. The swelling, while reduced, was still evident. Scarring consumed John’s entire shoulder. One large scar where the bullet had entered and several smaller surgery scars marked his joint. John, being a relatively skinny man, had clavicles that were easily seen beneath his skin, and the plate that held his once-shattered bone together periodically became visible through some of his movements. 

John closed his eyes to avoid eye contact with either people in the room. He could hear Rosie next to him and felt a wet drop hit his bare chest. 

He opened his eyes to see a distraught Rosie whose eyes were trained on the source of his suffering. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” John whispered in an attempt to calm her. 

“You’re hurt,” she mumbled. “What are all these lines?” 

She began to outline his scar with her small fingers which proved uncomfortable to John, but he didn’t shift away; instead, he placed his right hand over her own and moved the two over to the middle of his chest. This immensely reduced pressure. 

Sherlock stood confused. Surely she had seen her father’s chest before? The more he thought about it, however, the more he realized that he himself hadn’t seen John shirtless all that many times. John actively avoided letting others see his scar. Even when swimming, he wore a shirt.

This train of thought was interrupted when John began to speak. 

“They are scars, love,” he answered. “I know you heard me say I got shot.” 

“What does that mean?” she inquired. 

“That means someone…” John paused, unsure of how to explain the concept in a less graphic way. 

“Rosie, do you remember the time you heard that loud noise when we were with Lestrade?”

“Yeah…”

“And then we went over to the firing range where the sound came from, and you watched them shoot the guns at the target?”

“Yeah…”

“That’s what happened to your dad except the bullet hit him.”

“Oh…” Her voice trailed off. 

John nodded in thanks towards Sherlock. It had always been hard for him to talk about the injury. Sure he had gone through therapy, both physical and mental, but that bullet changed his life. 

“So, when the bad guy hit me last night, it hurt more than it should have,” John finished. 

“Let’s leave him to rest up a bit, Rosie,” Sherlock suggested. 

“Okay,” she agreed. “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” John replied with a smile. 

With the newly placed pillow, the warmth from the heating pad, and the relief from the pain medicine, John was already beginning to feel better. The weight of keeping his injury a secret from Rosie was also lifted off of him. He drifted off to sleep in minutes. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock and Rosie sat on the sofa in the downstairs. Sherlock knew that Rosie still had questions; however, she wouldn’t ask them to John.


	3. Chapter 3

“Who shot my dad?” She asked and broke the silence. 

“Do you know what your dad did before he moved back to London?” 

“He was a doctor,” she confirmed. 

“Well, yes, but he was also a soldier in the army. Do you know what that is?” 

“Yes! Mommy used to read me books about it!” 

Sherlock smiled. Apparently, Mary had tried to bridge the gap between John and Rosie even before she died. 

“One of the bad guys on the other side of the war shot your dad,” Sherlock explained as delicately as possible. 

“When?” 

“Much before you were born,” Sherlock deflected as he himself wasn’t sure of the exact time despite his best efforts of deduction. 

“What happened when he got shot?” she inquired, in a rather innocent tone. 

“What do you mean?” Sherlock replied, hoping that she didn’t want to know his exact injuries. 

“What got hurt in him?” she questioned. 

Sherlock giggled at the oddly phrased question. 

“Well… his collarbone, this one…” He pointed to her own to give a reference. “That bone got hit by the bullet, and it… uh… broke.” 

“You mean it… like… snapped?” she asked, completely shocked. 

“Well…” He didn’t want to use the word shattered, but that was pretty much the only word that sufficed. “It got ‘snapped’ in a few places.” 

“Ouchie…” 

“Yeah, I’m sure it hurt. There was some other damage to these things called ligaments and tendons, but mostly nerves.” 

“Nerves…” she pondered. “Like when Dad tells me I’m getting his last nerves?”

Sherlock bit his lip to keep from giggling. 

“I guess so. That’s why he loses feeling in his hand sometimes.” 

“What does it feel like to ‘lose feeling’?” 

“Here… I have an idea. Pull your foot up under you and sit on it for a while,” Sherlock suggested. 

While they waited for her leg to “lose feeling” as she had wished, Rosie asked more questions. 

“Why does it still hurt him?” 

“You saw the scar. It just did a lot of damage, and your dad didn’t get all of his movement back.” 

She nodded in understanding and sat quietly. All the new information ran through her head at a rapid speed. 

About 20 minutes went by when Sherlock had broken the silence. 

“Alright, stand up and try to walk around.” 

“Okay!” She seemed excited. 

She slowly stood up and tried to take a step only to be met with the pins and needles feeling. 

“This feels weird…” she began, “and it kinda hurts…” 

“That’s what your dad feels,” Sherlock explained, deciding to leave out the fact that it was much worse for John. 

“All the time?” she exclaimed. 

“Mostly in the evening,” Sherlock fibbed. He knew very well that John’s nerve pain was near constant and peaked after long days. 

“Does John, I mean your dad, ever talk about himself?” Sherlock asked. 

“Not really…” 

“Oh.”

It wasn’t really a surprise. John had always been a private person especially when it came to his health. Most everything Sherlock knew about John’s shoulder had been deduced. 

Sherlock moved over to the armchair and left Rosie to take a nap. It seemed as though the afternoon’s realizations were starting to take an emotional toll on her. 

To Sherlock’s amazement, Rosie was asleep in about 30 mins. Knowing John was home, he left the flat to make a trip to Scotland Yard. 

John woke up from a five-hour slumber in a flash of terror. It was not surprising that nightmares plagued his sleep seeing as his shoulder was still fairly uncomfortable when he awoke. 

“Damn…” John voiced as he sat up from the bed. 

While the pain had definitely lessened, his shoulder did not feel great. 

He drug himself down the stairs to find some food that he could take more medicine with. He found Rosie, much to his surprise, awake and sitting on the couch surrounded by supplies. 

“I’m ready to help you, Dad,” she announced. 

John looked around at the contents of the coffee table. There lay his thermal patches, an ice pack that had long since melted, a hot water bottle, and his medical kit. 

“Wow, I can tell you’ve prepared,” John snickered. 

“You are my patient,” Rosie stated. No question about it. 

“Am I, now?” he challenged. 

“Yes, I am Doctor Rosie—“ 

“You are Doctor Watson, love.” 

She smiled. “I’m here to take care of your shoulder.” 

John gave her a look that usually meant she was pushing her limits; however, Rosie took this opportunity to grab his right arm and lead him to the sofa. 

“Careful,” John reminded as he was met with strain. 

John felt a bit odd. He had no shirt on as he had fallen asleep without it and he was letting his daughter see the weakest part of him. 

Rosie picked up a roll of gauze from John’s kit and hovered over his joint. 

“I’m gonna wrap up your shoulder, Dad,” she explained as professionally as possible. 

John internally winced at the idea of external pressure and the potential contact between her fingers and his delicate flesh. 

“How about… you get me a new ice pack from the freezer, and we sit and watch the telly instead.” 

“But…” she began, “I want to be a doctor.”

“You are a doctor. I just can’t have my shoulder wrapped up right now,” John tried to explain. 

“Why not?” 

“It’ll just make it worse, but thank you so much for everything, Rosie.” 

“You are welcome, John…” She smiled. 

“Uhh, nope. Why’d you call me that?”

“You are my patient remember?” 

“So you get to call me John?” 

“Yep,” she retorted popping the p. (Something she had no doubt picked up from Sherlock) 

Before too long, John had gotten himself some food and took more medicine. He also had an ice pack fixed over his shoulder from his loving daughter, and the two fell asleep on the couch.


	4. Chapter 4

No more than an hour later, the flat was bombarded by several officers from Scotland Yard followed by an irritated Sherlock. 

“I don’t have any evidence here, Graham!” Sherlock called.

“It’s Greg, and for the last time, I don’t believe you.” 

By this point, John had bolted awake and was beginning to scan the flat. He immediately felt exposed as he looked down to realize that he was still shirtless and that there were five officers in his home.

All of them, including Donovan and Anderson, turned and began to stare at John’s shoulder. Sure, John was fairly comfortable with his body, but their attention made him panic. He didn’t want to make a big deal, so he quickly wrapped a blanket around himself. 

By this point, Rosie had woken up and saw John’s stunned expression. Not only was he embarrassed, but the pain meds had definitely worn off. 

“Daddy? Are you okay?” Rosie inquired, concerned. 

John was breathing heavily, and Sherlock began to be concerned as well. 

“John?” Sherlock whispered as he got to closer and sat down next to his flatmate. 

Said man had scrunched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth by this point. Damn. Maybe there was something wrong with his shoulder. 

“Greg, could you please remove your unnecessary troops from our evidence-free flat?” Sherlock requested. 

Greg just nodded and waved the officers towards the door. He, himself, stayed put. 

“Alright, John. They are gone. What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked once again.

Rosie curled her small hand into John’s own. 

“There is something wrong,” John admitted. 

“Very astute observation; however, I was hoping you would elaborate.” 

“I… think… my clavicle or the plate might be damaged,” he continued. “It hurts too much to just be an aggravation.” 

“A & E?” 

John grimaced at just the thought of sitting in a cold and hard room for hours before being seen.

“No, I--”

“John, we are going,” Sherlock commanded.

“Wait a minute--”

“John, you should really get that checked out,” Lestrade agreed.

“Just listen!” John yelled, obviously becoming aggravated. “Let’s go to my surgery and have Sarah look at it.” 

“I like Sarah!” Rosie exclaimed from John’s side. 

Sherlock and Lestrade both exchanged a glance of acceptance.

“Fine, John, but if she finds anything, you are getting it treated,” Sherlock insisted.

“I’m not stupid,” John reminded.

Just 30 minutes later, Sherlock and John had arrived at the building. Lestrade had agreed to watch Rosie for the time being on the stipulation that he receive updates via text. 

John sat seated on an exam table shirtless, once again and awaited the arrival of his coworker. Sherlock sat in the waiting room in order to accommodate John’s request that he undergo the exam alone.

Just minutes later, she arrived with a knock on the door. 

“John… what seems to be the problem?” Her eyes were drawn to the extensive scarring, bruising, and swelling.

“Well… I got hit with some type of blunt object the other night.”

“Why wait so long to come in?”

“I thought it might just be painful because it was to the same shoulder that I was shot in.”

“Ah…” She documented. “Got a self-diagnosis?” 

“I think it might have damaged my clavicle or the plate from a previous surgery.”

She nodded and wrote down his thoughts. 

“Let’s get you x-rayed.”

After what seemed like an eternity and an extended period of torturous contortions for the pictures, Sarah came back with x-rays in hand. 

“Well… it looks like there is a very minor hairline fracture in your left clavicle.”

“Damage to the plate?”

“Actually no. You were quite lucky. Looks like you avoided surgery.”

“Good,” he rejoiced. 

“I consulted with orthopedics and it looks like your best bet would be immobilization and medication.”

“Not too bad, I guess,” he replied.

“No, not at all. I’d say about a month recovery, but you can monitor yourself.”

“Perks of being a doctor, I suppose.” He smiled.

He was fitted with a sling that actually made him feel much more secure as well as a prescription for a strong painkiller. 

Just about three hours later, John arrived back at 221B being ushered by a very concerned and very annoyed Sherlock.

“John, you really should be more careful,” Sherlock informed. 

“It’s not my fault that my sodding shoulder was already weak,” John defended. 

“Well, you shouldn’t have allowed yourself to be attacked.”

Initially furious by Sherlock’s ignorance, John began to smile. 

“You are worried about me, aren’t you?” John teased.

“What?” Sherlock wrinkled up his forehead and raised his eyebrows. “I’m not worried.” 

“Yes… yes, you are… “ 

“Perhaps a bit,” Sherlock admitted. 

“Sentiment getting the best of you?” John questioned.

“Certainly not, but I’d be lost without my blogger.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a kudos and comment if you enjoyed! Check out my other Sherlock story!


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